


What's Mine is Yours

by anisland



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Punk, F/F, Punk, Therese POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-25 23:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9852431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anisland/pseuds/anisland
Summary: Therese Belivet has put everything she has into running her record store. A young punk with a punk boyfriend, she should have everything she wants, but deep down, she knows she's meant for something more. Cue the alluring and affluent Carol Aird, who leaves her gloves on the counter and, in doing so, permanently entangles her life with Therese's.





	1. Your Heart is a Muscle the Size of Your Fist

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Carol (2015), The Price of Salt, or any of its characters. I do not own any of the music referenced in this fic unless stated otherwise, including the title of this fic and the titles of many of the chapters.
> 
> This will probably update infrequently, but I hope you enjoy it. Usual apologies for typos missed in editing.

     Therese Belivet places a record on the turn table, lets it spin, and then moves the needle carefully onto the first track. A folk punk song plays from speakers around the tiny shop, and Therese sighs from her place behind the counter. Business is slow at 11 AM on a Tuesday, especially somewhere as niche as Your Heart is a Muscle Records. Only people who live and breathe music by records these days, and even fewer of those people are punk and hardcore fans. But Therese has a passion and some inheritance, and that proved enough for her to rent a storefront and stock her record store with the music she loves. She hasn’t lost money in the past year, but she hasn’t made much of a profit either, just barely enough to make rent. Therese took a night bartending job at her favorite venue to help pay for gas and groceries, but she still doesn’t have a lot left over. Even so, at the age of twenty-two, Therese has made something of herself, and that gives her something to live for.  
     She pulls out her phone to pass the time and notices she has a text from Richard Semco. They matched on a dating app and talked a little about their mutual love of punk. They’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks, but now he’s getting impatient. Therese hasn’t hooked up with him, nothing beyond some kissing, and she doesn’t really think she wants to do anything else.  
      _What are you wearing rn?_ the text reads.  
     She frowns and types out _idk what I usually wear?_  
     His reply comes quickly: _I got some new patches and i was gonna drop by and give them to you if you had your vest on_.  
     Therese smiles just a little. Okay. He’s not all that bad.  
     The bell above the door rings, and she’s expecting Richard with his arms full of safety pins and PWR BTTM patches for her denim vest, which already boasts quite the collection. Instead, a woman pokes her head through the door, then steps in. About forty with shining blonde hair and sophisticated features, she looks like an eagle amongst pigeons in designer trousers and a double-breasted coat. Snow dusts her clothing and the weather has given her cheeks a rosy hue. She doesn’t glance at the counter, but instead to the shelves of records, examining the cardboard-and-marker signs Therese placed around the store to mark which genres are found in each section. This mystery woman frowns at a sign that reads _Riot Grrrl_ , then turns to face Therese. She approaches the counter and smiles.  
     “Hello.” She removes her leather gloves and places them on the counter, sets her purse beside them. “I’m looking for a Christmas gift for my nephew. My sister-in-law says he likes a band called Fugazi? They’re getting him a record player and she says he needs albums.”  
     Therese feels her cheeks warm and it takes her longer than it should to form a response. Fugazi. Fugazi. What’s Fugazi? She forgets for a moment, forgets about music, about DIY ethos, about Richard bringing her patches. There is only the warm and husky tone of this woman’s voice, the amused glint in her eyes.  
     “Oh,” Therese finally manages. “Fugazi. Yeah. They’re in the post-hardcore section. Are you looking for a particular release? Or an original versus a reissue?”  
     “Well,” the woman says wistfully, “I don’t really know much about this music or this culture.” Therese frowns, and the woman’s mouth forms an oh shape. “That wasn’t meant to sound elitist or condescending, I promise. I’m just really not familiar with rock music short of The Beatles, which I’m sure makes me very lame.” She gives a laugh, then looks past Therese out the window. “Looks like a storm’s coming. It must be nice spending your day here, inside.”  
     “I do like it here, yes.”  
     The woman sighs. “Do you have any recommendations?”  
     “Thirteen Songs is a good place to start,” Therese stammers. “It’s the band’s first two EPs combined into one album.”  
     “Sounds perfect.”  
     Therese smiles, but then pauses. She throws her head back, then looks to the woman. “And of course we’re out of it. I almost forgot. I placed an order a couple days ago, so it should be here by next week.” She grabs a pen and a notepad from under the counter. “If you jot down your contact info, I’ll call you when it’s in.”  
     The woman takes the pen from Therese. Their hands brush, and a jolt rocks Therese so hard she shivers. “Are you okay?” she asks, and Therese nods.  
     “Yeah,” Therese says. “Just a little cold in here.”  
     Pen scratches soundly against paper, and the woman pushes the notepad back to Therese, who takes a quick moment to run her hand over the name over the phone number: _Carol Aird_. Carol studies Therese for a moment, smiles. “Your hair is very interesting. I like your bangs.”  
     More used to receiving disapproving stares and coughs of _lesbo_ and _dyke_ while walking around the city as a result of her haircut, Therese feels a warmth bloom in her chest. She likes her microbangs and otherwise asymmetrical mop. She likes the black dye. She likes that it looks like her. “Thank you,” she says. “I cut it myself.”  
     “I’m genuinely impressed,” she responds. “Well, that’s that. I’ll see you next week.” She frowns for a moment, then looks Therese straight in the eye. “What’s your name?”  
     “Therese. Therese Belivet.”  
     The woman nods her approval, the reaches out her hand to shake. Therese grasps it. “A lovely name, Therese. I’m Carol.”  
     Carol does not drop her hand, but releases it gently. “So long, Therese.” Then she takes her purse and walks away with long and elegant strides, leaving Therese staring after her, stuck in time and place and thought, caught on the faint floral aroma left where Carol had stood.  
     Finally, Therese sucks in the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She glances down at the counter and her line of vision collides with two tan leather gloves, gloves that undoubtedly belong to Carol.  
     She could just call Carol, couldn’t she? That would be the reasonable thing to do. But the thought fills Therese with a light-headed panic. What will she say to Carol? What will Carol say to her? Does it matter? Isn’t she just a shop owner talking to a customer? Why does it make her stomach flip to even consider dialing Carol’s number, even without hitting send? No, Therese can’t call her now. Instead, she pulls her canvas messenger bag from under the counter and places the gloves neatly in the side pocket. She’ll deal with Carol and the gloves later. She needs to place her thoughts back where they’re meant to be. Anyway, Richard should be on his way. For Richard especially, she must behave as if everything is perfectly normal, which in fact, she tells herself, it is.  



	2. If Only You Were Lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The response to the first chapter was way more enthusiastic than I though it would be! Thanks for reading, and the usual apologies for typos missed in editing.

     Two bottles of cheap beer clink together, their necks clutched in Therese’s right hand. She sets them on the scratched wooden bar and outstretches a hand to the mohawked crust punk on the other side. “Five,” she says. He hands her the cash and swaggers off with his drinks into the crowd of people surrounding the stage.  
     “Hey, Terry!” Richard slides up to the bar, Richard with the mohawk he never spikes up, Richard in his leather vest and combat boots. His friend Phil follows him, accompanied by someone Therese doesn’t know, a guy with a bun in a buttoned flannel shirt and thick-rimmed glasses.   
     “Have you met my brother Dannie?” Phil asks, nodding to his companion.   
     Dannie waves. “Nice to meet you. I dig the whole Fabulous Stains thing you’ve got going on.”  
     “Oh,” Therese says. “Thanks? I think?” She pulls three beers from behind the bar. “Nice to meet you, too.”   
     “Dannie goes to _college_ ,” Richard teases, elbowing Dannie just hard enough for Therese to notice him wince.   
     “What for?” Therese asks.   
     “Journalism,” Dannie replies, looking down at his feet before making eye contact with Therese.  
     Phil hands over a clump of wrinkled bills for the beers. “These guys good?” he asks.  
     “They’re okay,” Therese says. “They mostly just cover The Exploited.”  
     Dannie shrugs. “As long as there’s a pit.”  
     Phill laughs. “Watch this: What’s your favorite band, Dannie?”  
     Dannie frowns. “Modern Baseball.”  Phill and Richard laugh. “You’re hipster trash. I love you, but you’re hipster trash.”  
     The crowd roars, small but unmistakably energized, and Richard looks to Therese. “You think I can come over later?”  
     Therese can feel the weight of Carol’s gloves, slight but significant, in her back pocket, which is where she placed them, she tells herself, because she was afraid of them falling from her bag. She refuses to admit that she likes feeling them close to her, because she doesn’t, she thinks. She definitely doesn’t.  
     “I don’t think so,” she says. I don’t get off until three.”  
     Richard exhales. “Okay. But tomorrow you’re off, right?  
     “Yeah,” Therese says. “I’m off.”  
     “So tomorrow night?”  “Maybe,” she replies. “I’ll call you?”  
     Richard smiles. “Sounds cool.” Then he wanders into the crowd with Dannie and Phil, and Therese slouches over the bar. The band stomps on stage, and the singer grabs the mic. He screams and screams, and the crowd screams back, and Therese swears she can feel herself screaming with them, even when her mouth is closed and her heart is silent.

     Therese lies on her mattress, stares straight up at the ceiling. Bikini Kill plays from her turn table, and she holds Carol’s gloves just above her face. Her hands drop them and they drape over Therese’s mouth and eyes and cheeks. She inhales deep through her nose and that faint floral scent hits her again, sweet but not overbearing. It brings to mind the fields she left upstate, the woods behind her father’s home. She had liked things then. She sometimes wished she understood as a child just how jealous her mother was after her father’s will stipulated that everything he had went to little Therese upon turning eighteen. Her mother remarried, sure. Her mother has a home and an income and a second child she loves more than her first. Yet, she never recovered from what she considered the ultimate slight. But Therese tries not to think about that. Therese tries to think of the wild flowers and the willow trees, the blackberries and the calming insect chirps.  
     She turns over and the gloves fall from her face to the mattress. The clock on her bedside table reads 5 AM. Her hand gropes for her phone. She sits up and yanks her messenger bag from the floor onto the mattress, spills its contents out. She grabs her notebook and flips to the page with Carol’s number, allows her eyes to hover over it. Carol won’t answer, will she? No, Therese will leave a message, which she figures is safest. The only way Therese can contact Carol, can speak to Carol, without having a conversational means of making herself look foolish to the other woman, is simply to leave a message. That’s it. That’s all.  
     So Therese dials the number, and the phone rings and rings and rings. Just when she thinks the call is about to go to voicemail, she hears it.  
     “Hello?”  
     A little groggy maybe, but Carol’s voice comes through the receiver and sends shivers across Therese’s skin.  
     “Hi. Um, hi, Carol. This is Therese, from Your Heart is a Muscle Records.”  
     “God Therese, it’s five in the morning.” Sheets rustle in the background. Therese images Carol sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. What must she wear to bed? A nightgown in too matronly, though lingerie doesn’t seem quite her style either. Therese decides not to think about that, that it’s weird to think about it when she’s talking directly to Carol, but the thought is hard to push out of her head. Carol’s husband must be next to her, Therese figures. Carol has an in-law, which means she has a husband.  
     “I know,” Therese says. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep. You left your gloves in the shop yesterday. If you want to come by and grab them sometime, I’ll be there from ten to six.”  
     “Oh,” Carol responds. Her tone becomes warmer, and as she speaks, Therese can feel her own lips curl into a smile. “Thank you. I, well, I won’t be able to get away until around six-thirty, but maybe we can meet then? For dinner, perhaps?”  
     Therese said she would call Richard later. But later can mean later. Later can mean nine or ten or even later than later. And Carol is, well _Carol_. It is as if there is a rope between them, a shimmering ethereal cord, visible only to Therese. She wishes she could take that cord and follow it like the kind they use to help pedestrians navigate sidewalks in a blizzard. Therese yearns to find Carol and to sit beside her near the fire.  
     “I’d love to,” she says.   
     “The Good Luck. At seven?”  
     A light, giddy wave spreads across Therese’s chest and down her arms. “At seven,” she repeats.  
     “Good. Now please, let me get some sleep.” Carol laughs a sharp, good-natured laugh, and then all Therese hears is the dial tone as Carol materializes back into her bed.   
     Therese stands and removes the needle from her Bikini Kill record. She inhales deeply until she feels as if her lungs are primed to spill over. Then, she screams. She screams and screams for minutes and maybe in her head even hours, screams until she has no scream left in her, screams just because she can.  
     Her upstairs neighbor’s dog begins to woop alongside her, and soon every pet in the neighborhood croons with her melody.  
     Then Therese falls back onto the mattress with a thump, turns to face the wall, which is covered in scribbles: _Get fucked, love Sadie; keep on loving keep on fighting; acab acab acab; revolution grrrl style now._ Therese had one party in this apartment, just one when she first moved in. She stocked a keg and played records, and everyone laughed and screamed and loved. When the cheers for beers chant wafted through the whole place, the unbridled community and togetherness of punk, Therese locked herself in her room, sat on the floor with her knees pulled to her chest. She wanted to be a part of it, wanted to experience it. Those people come to the shop now, some almost every day. They make idle chat about this band or that. _Do you like The Germs? Is Perfect Pussy just hipster punk?_   
     But they don't ask her to get a smoke or go to house shows. They don't ask her how she is or if she has any siblings or how do you get your hair to do that? They know she’s not quite like them, and so does Therese, but after wracking her brain for months, she still can’t figure out why.


	3. Come Hither

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've said this will update infrequently (I think? Maybe? It was so long ago, guys), but I'm glad for anyone who still wants to stick around!

Therese sits at a long oak bar in a converted warehouse. Edison lights hang above her and tables dot the floor, cozy and intimate, soft and low. Therese bought a thrift-store button down shirt, suspenders, and trousers for interviews when she was trying to get a real job, and she wears the outfit now, with Carol’s gloves sitting in front of her on the bar. Carol made trousers look chic and wealthy and effortlessly stylish, but the ensemble on Therese makes her looks more like she just leaped from the pages of A Clockwork Orange. She knows she will never shake the grit from her look, and she doesn’t particularly want to, but she has become acutely aware, in this place and in this moment, how different her world is from Carol’s.

“Hello.” Therese turns slowly to her left, and Carol fades into frame in front of her. She leans on the bar, wearing that same devilish, knowing smile she had on at the shop. “I think our table’s ready. Shall we?”

Therese smiles, snatches the gloves from the bar, crushes them pleasantly in her grip, feels them on her skin. “Of course.”

The host leads them to a table for two and places menus in front of each of them, makes his exit swiftly enough that Therese doesn’t have time to gather her thoughts in regards to Carol. What will they do once Therese gives her the gloves? What could they have to talk about? Therese thinks for a moment that she could just talk to Carol about Carol, Carol who, Therese allows herself to acknowledge for just a moment, seems as if she could draw ore from the earth with her aura.

But someone needs to start this, needs to plunge feet first into this steaming spring, so Therese places the gloves on the table and slides them as smoothly as she can to the other side. “I think these belong to you,” she says.

Carol chuckles. “I was lost without them. Especially in this weather.”

“You don’t seem like the sort of person who would get frightened off by a little snow.”

She scoffs at Therese. “Frightened? No. But certainly a little deterred.”

Carol glances at the menu briefly, the looks back to Therese. “I think I’d like a drink.”

A server appears at their table. Before he even has the chance to speak, Carol stops him. “I’ll have a Manhattan and the fillet of sole.”

Therese realizes that she doesn’t know what sole is and that she can’t imagine why anyone would put oxtail on a menu, even if it is wrapped in prosciutto. Carol must know that Therese doesn't know. She can’t actually think Therese has lived like this before.

“I’ll have the same,” Therese says, hoping that sole is something she likes. The server takes their menus, then leaves them to stir in each other’s company.

The edge of Carol’s lip twitches upwards just slightly. She looks down her nose and Therese feels rather examined, like Carol is trying to peg down something essential about her. “You gave me quite the surprise when you called me last night,” she finally says.

Therese laughs. “I hope it wasn't too difficult to get back to sleep.”

The server interrupts them by placing their drinks on the table. In a single, fluid motion, Carol raises hers to her mouth, sips it, then lowers the glass back to the table. She shrugs. “I don't sleep much these days. Not since Harge moved out, anyway.”

Therese takes a sip of her drink and hopes Carol doesn’t see her wince. “Is Harge your husband?” She adds a scoff to the end of it, just enough to show Carol her disdain for marriage as an institution, but not so much that Carol might feel as if she’s mocking her.

Carol smiles like she might if she were watching two young kittens batting each other with their paws. “He won’t be soon.”

“I’m sorry.” Therese looks at her, and suddenly feels bad about the scoff.

Carol chuckles. “It’s a mutual separation. Don’t worry about it.” She takes another sip of her drink. “It’s not messy.”

The server interrupts again to set their meals in front of them. Therese turns her eyes to her plate to find a white fish that smells of butter and lemon over a bed of grilled asparagus. She’s never particularly liked fish. She doesn’t even eat meat.

Therese digs underneath the sole and pokes at the asparagus with her fork. She cuts a stalk in half, raises it to her mouth, and takes a bite. It’s seasoned and tender and good, but Therese can’t help but feel a blush creeping up her cheeks. Carol’s bound to notice that she doesn’t eat the fish.

“So, Therese,” Carol says, “where do you live? In the city?”

“I do. I have an apartment by myself in Harlem.”

“You live alone, then?”

Therese feels a lump in her throat as she tries to swallow another bite of asparagus. “I just said so. Why?”

Carol shrugs, but she wears this feline grin that makes Therese think that the line of questioning is more deliberate that it initially appeared. “I just thought that a girl like you might have a boyfriend.”

Therese frowns. “A girl like me?”

“I just meant that a young, attractive woman like yourself probably doesn’t have trouble attracting someone she finds interesting enough to keep around.”

Therese picks up her drink and gulps about half of it down. “I’m seeing someone. Richard. But I live alone.”

“And is it serious with Richard?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet. He’d like it to be.”

“And you?”

“And I barely even know if I want to see him next week.”

Carol looks past Therese for a moment, then meets her eyes. “Where do you like to go, Therese?”

“For what?”

“For anything. I’m under the impression that maybe this isn’t your type of place.”

Therese laughs. She looks down to her uneaten fish, then back to Carol. “I don’t think you’d like it much.”

And when they walk through the doors of the Dead End bar, Therese spares a glance Carol’s way to clock if she was right. Instead, Carol appears to stand straighter and walk with a more stable stride than before. Crusties and leftover grunge types crowd the bar, with a few midwestern emo kids who grew into harder adults evening out the mix. Booths line the walls, but younger people clad in thrift store sweaters and combat boots crowd around the left corner of the room, where a three-piece band is in the process of setting up.

Carol begins to step towards the bar, but Therese drags her in the other direction, towards the crowd. They settle along the fringes, and Carol frowns at Therese. “What are we doing?” she asks.

Therese glances up at her. “Deciding if I want to order some of this band’s records for the shop.” She shifts back and forth on her feet. Carol’s angry, maybe, that they came to a venue. Therese hasn’t known Carol for two days, and somehow the notion of Carol’s anger, especially directed towards herself, makes her skin go red. She takes a half step closer to Carol, knowing how likely it is that they might never stand so close to one another again. Carol is about to step away, and Therese knows it in her bones until Carol actually seems to hover maybe an inch closer.

“What kind of band are they?” Carol asks.

“Oh,” Therese says, then decides that she wants someone to smack her across the head for saying something so uncouth. “They have kind of a pop-punk grunge thing going for them. Like a lot of the bands on Hardly Art, except these guys are fresher.”

“I don’t know what any of that means,” Carol laughs. “But it’s good that you do, or else I wouldn’t have a guide.”

A woman about Therese’s age stands up to the mic with a bass guitar strapped around her shoulder. “Hey, everyone!” she says. “We’re Sun Damage, and these are some songs.” The drummer taps her sticks together three times to count the band off, and then the whole place erupts. Poppy indie-punk with a little bit of surf rock on the edge guides the crowd as they bounce along to the music.

Therese and Carol stay back and observe the action. For just a few moments, Therese forgets that Carol stands with her and absorbs the music as it makes contact with her skin, osmoses into her heart.

“Do you like them?” asks Carol after a few songs.

It shakes Therese out of her trace, and in a moment she feels herself grow hot all over again. She wonders if Carol judges her for this experience. “They’re cool,” Therese says, trying to play it cool herself. “I like their vibe.”

After the show, Therese leads Carol outside. The cool air comes as a relief. They pause outside the bar, and Carol smiles at her, which makes Therese want to ask her to do something else with the night, like walk through the park or get a late cup of coffee at a twenty-four hour diner.

“Are you doing anything this weekend?” Carol asks.

“Saturday I’m at the shop, but we’re closed on Sundays.”

Carol looks to the sidewalk, then back to Therese. “Then I’d like it if you came over Sunday. If you want to, that is.”

Therese feels as if a brace has been thrust up her spine. She stands there for a moment, hoping that the feeling will return to her lips soon.

A car drives by and blares its horn, which knocks Therese back to the present. “I’d like that,” she responds.

“I’ll text you the address.” Carol turns and walks towards the corner. She leans out onto the street and draws a taxi to her. She opens the rear door, then turns back to Therese. “I had a lovely evening, Therese.”

And then she steps in, and then she’s gone around the corner. Therese stands still, and remembers that she told Richard she might see him tonight. She decides against it, and walks in the direction of the train, shoulders huddled against the cold.

 


	4. Maid of the Mist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this! I'm doing my writing MFA right now and I don't have a lot of time for fan fiction. Usual apologies for errors missed in editing.

Richard leans on the counter with his face cradled between his hands. His eyes glance up at Therese as she plants check marks down the page of an inventory list. Phil stands next to him and leans against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Therese ignores both of them, but glances up across the cramped space to see Dannie thumbing through some records.

“Is this copy of Bad Moon Rising an original or a re-issue?” he asks as he turns around.

“Original,” Therese replies. She looks back down to her list and smiles to herself.

“Do you wanna go to the bar later?” Richard asks. “You don’t have a shift tonight.”

Therese shrugs. “I have that thing tomorrow remember? The address is all the way in Jersey. I don’t wanna be up that late tonight.”

“What thing?”

“You know…” She trails off. “I’m meeting that woman. Carol.”

Phil laughs. “But why? She’s a normie. Even where she lives. Jersey.” He shudders. “Ew.”

“It’s not Jersey City, is it?” Richard asks.

Therese puts down her list. She opens a drawer behind the counter and begins to rummage through it. “No. It’s in the suburbs.”

He stands up straight. “That’s even worse.”

Dannie appears in front of the counter. “Can I buy this?” He holds Bad Moon Rising up to Therese.

“It’s eighty dollars.”

Dannie’s smiles fades. “Why?”

“It’s original and mint. If you just wanna listen to Sonic Youth, the reprint is twenty.”

Dannie shakes his head. “I think I’m good.”  
***  
Therese puts the key in the lock and turns it. She just wants to take the train uptown back to her place, maybe fall asleep early and try to ignore the pinpricks that erupt in her pelvis when she thinks about Carol (because what would it mean to embrace those pinpricks? She doesn’t want to think about it), but Richard, Phil, and Dannie are still on her tail.

  
“You sure you don’t want to go to the bar?” Richard chides. “Even just for a drink?” 

Therese knows that just a drink will always become six drinks in the first hour they sit at the bar. She’s about to say no, but then Richard kisses her on the cheek and she remembers that they’re supposed to be dating. “One drink,” she says.

The foursome walk into the bar, and immediately Phil splits from the group. “Dannie and I’ll get the drinks,” he says.

“I don’t think we both need to—“ Dannie starts, but Phil cuts him off and gives Richard a hard look. 

“We’ll get the drinks, and Richard and Therese can find a table,” he repeats with clenched teeth. This causes a mild anxiety to rise in Therese’s stomach and up into her throat. Phill steps away, and Dannie shrugs and follows. Richard takes Therese’s hand and leads them through the crowd and the scratched and exposed brick walls to an empty corner booth. He slides in and pull Therese after him.

“Listen,” he says. “I really like you.”

“I like you, too,” Therese responds. It’s not a lie. She likes Richard. She really does. But it feels like a lie, deep inside her chest, a lie that makes her think about Carol and the pinpricks again. 

“I’m really happy about that. You have no idea how happy I am. I’ve been telling everyone about you. About how I met this great girl.”

She isn’t sure how to respond, but she doesn’t need to because Richard just keeps going. 

“I know you wanted to take things kind of slow, but I really think we’re getting to a more serious place. We haven’t made it official, but we’re exclusive, aren’t we?”

“I suppose.”

“Right. So I was wondering something. Do you wanna spend the night together? It would be nice, wouldn’t it? Like we’re a real couple now.”

There’s some pushback against the inside of her skull. She should want to spend the night with Richard. She knows she should. He’s the type of man she always figured she’d end up with, the kind but rough around the edges type who likes all the things she does. She should want to be alone with Richard. She should want to watch a movie with him or cook dinner together or have sex in her bed, all with Richard. She wants to want all those things, in a way that is not quite so intense as they way she’s supposed to want him but doesn’t.

She smiles at him. “Maybe another time,” she says. “Just because I have to be up tomorrow morning.”

Richard nods and smiles. He kisses her on the lips and she kisses back, but just a fraction of a second too late. “Sounds good,” he says.

***

_Do you want to meet downtown for brunch?_ read the text that Therese received last night. _We can take my car from there._

So now Carol and Therese sit in a trendy Chelsea restaurant surrounded by handsome gay men who wear suits to work and women in yoga pants who probably went to Columbia Law. Even so, this restaurant proved easier for Therese; the menu items were ones she understood like french toast and farmhouse omelet. 

She takes a fork and knife to her french toast and cuts it with slow and deliberate movements. Carol sips a mimosa and smiles. “Thank you for meeting me today,” she says, her eyes glowing at Therese.

The right corner of Therese’s mouth gets tugged towards her cheek bone. “Thank you for asking me.”

“Do you like the restaurant? I thought maybe you’d prefer this to The Good Luck. It’s rather pretentious there, anyway.”

“No, this is nice.” Therese says. She looks at Carol, who wears a grey sweater with a button up underneath and a pair of chinos. A black blazer completes the ensemble. A much more relaxed look than their other meetings, maybe just because it is Sunday morning, but maybe because she wants to be more relaxed with Therese. Relaxed, yes, but still elegant. Or maybe Therese is just reading into this too much. “I like your outfit,” she says. “You look good in it. Confident but gentle, if that makes sense.”

“It does. Thank you.”

***  
It starts snowing in the car on the way to Carol’s. Gentle white fluff drifts from the sky lulls Therese into a calmness betrayed only when her hands stop fidgeting against one another. She and Carol converse, and from time to time Carol will make a point by reaching out a hand to touch Therese on the shoulder or to stroke her arm, a type of intimacy that she did not expect to find here.

They stop for coffee about halfway there and at the counter Therese experiences privilege standing next to Carol, knowing that everyone in that room understands that the two of them came together. When Carol smiles at her after they are handed their cups, Therese grows warm and buzzes with the jealously she imagines these other people feel at their jointness; she resents them as well because they must all be thinking _why is she with that mess of a girl? it should be me._

She loves that she needs to tilt her head up, ever so slightly, to smile back at Carol.

A long and winding driveway takes Carol and Therese to not a house, but a countryside castle, all lovely dark stone and wooden doors, the kind of house that someone who owns a vineyard might live in. 

Therese steps out of the car and cranes her neck to take it all in. 

The thump of a shutting door breaks her reverie, and she jerks her head towards Carol.

“Welcome,” Carol says. 

Inside Therese is greeted by hardwood floors and push contemporary furniture, situating the house’s architecture as a type of anachronism, an anomaly. 

“Would you like something?” Carol asks. “A glass of wine, perhaps? I know I’d love one.”

“Thanks,” Therese responds. She turns in a gradual circle as Carol disappears, taking in the long hallway that branches off into a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, who knows where else.

Carol leans around the corner of the kitchen entrance and flashes Therese that same feline grin. “Is a cabernet franc alright?”

Therese doesn’t know anything about wine. “That’s perfect.”

Carol floats away again, and she returns a moment later with two glasses. She hands one to Therese and leads them into the living room, where she swoops down to sit on a leather couch and motions for Therese to sit beside her. She kicks her shoes off and curls her legs up on the couch. Therese does the same, and sits about three inches away, which to her seems like a safe distance. She glances at Carol and then at the wine. She takes clumsy, tentative sip, then another more direct one once she decides that the wine is good. 

Carol sips hers. “I’m glad you like it.”

A billowing and lively silence operates between them for a few moments. Therese is less anxious than she was when she met Carol for dinner, but she certainly still has this bright and unforgiving hum pulsing in the caverns of her body. Those pinpricks come back again. They dance in her pelvis and her stomach and the insides of her thighs as she watches Carol lean back into the armrest, arch her back in a subtle movement and tilt her chin upwards to reveal the length of her neck. She wants to reach out and touch Carol, there on the side of her neck, to slide her hand up the vines of her body and cup her cheek gently in her palm. She wants to move closer and make her skin touch Carol’s skin, but she doesn’t think that Carol wants that.

“How long have you lived here?” she asks instead.

“Oh, Harge and I moved in ages ago,” Carol begins. “2009? We had just married, and I was living in Manhattan with my friend Abby previously. The house has been in my family since at least the 20s, so it made more sense to us to stay here.”

“Harge doesn’t still live here, does he?”

“Technically, yes. It’s his legal residence, I mean. But he moved out last month. We’re still finalizing the divorce, so he does drop in every now and again.” Carol lets out laugh, smirks. “You don’t have anything to worry about. Not with him.”

A great sense of relief settles over Therese, the remedy for an illness she hadn’t known was there. “I’ve never been in a house like this.”

Carol shrugs. “A house is a house. It’s who and what are inside it that matter most, I think.”

She leans forwards a little to place a hand on Therese’s knee. “Did you always want to have a record store?”

Therese smiles and shakes her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever known what I want. I love music, though, and the whole culture and style of it. It just seemed like a fitting thing for me to do.” She realizes her cheeks are warming with blush, and sips her wine again as an excuse. “It’s been a year and I’m surprised I’m still open.”

“It’s difficult to run a business,” Carol says. She slides her hand to Therese’s thigh and rubs her thumb back and forth. Therese cannot remember the last time she experienced so much excitement and comfort all at once, swirling and negating one another constantly. “You need to be organized, ambitions, shrewd. It takes skill and intelligence.”

It occurs to Therese that maybe Carol wants the things she didn’t think she wanted. The way Carol said her friend’s name, Abby, with such wistful affection, might mean Therese missed something before.

But then Carol removes her hand from Therese’s thigh and leans back. She perches her wine glass on the end table behind her and stands. “Do you like Scrabble? I thought we could play.” 

Still wonderstruck, Therese nods and stares rather blankly at Carol before her. “I do.”

***

“Mmm. Triple word score. How’s that?” Carol scratches her score onto a notepad, then leans back on her arms. Therese sits on the other side of the board from her, on the floor, with her legs crossed. She hunches over her letter tiles and her eyebrows furrow. Carol has won the last two games, but only narrowly, and Therese wants to come out on top this time. 

“I think you’re in for a shock,” she replies as she places the letter Q on a double word score tile next to a U. “Q-U-A-R-K. Quark.”

Carol smirks. “Very clever indeed.” She looks away from Therese, and for a moment, her eyes become distant and unsure. Then she snaps back to herself and makes hard eye contact. She slides over the floor to Therese and places a hand over hers, but still maintains some distance. “I still can’t let you win.” She begins to laugh, and Therese laughs with her, until a click of a lock and the slam of a closing door interrupt them.

Footsteps follow and a man, in her early forties and handsome in a clean cut type of way, enters the living room, still in his peacoat and gloves and scarf. His expression jerks from neutral to scathing in a matter of seconds.

“What’s going on?” His bellow echoes through the house.

Carol sits, mouth agape, her hand still covering Therese’s. The man’s eyes dart to their hands bundled together, and Carol’s gaze follows his.

“Harge. Why are you here?”

“A man can’t visit his wife?”

Carol scrambles to her feet. “Not if she won’t be his wife for much longer.”

***  
Therese sits on the couch, knees together and hands bunched in her lap. She doesn’t even think about glancing towards the kitchen, but she hears everything.

“Who’s that girl?” Harge demands. 

Therese recalls that Carol said the divorce wasn’t messy. She decides that she doesn’t want to know what a messy divorce would look like.

“She works at the record store I ordered Benjamin’s gift from,” Carol explains. “I left my gloves on the counter and she returned them.”

“Bullshit, Carol. I know you and women like you and I know the things you want.”

“Women like me, Harge? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Like you, like Abby, like—“

“Abby and I were over long before you and I were over Harge.”

And then the voices drop to a whisper, and Therese can’t hear anything more.   



End file.
